Brigadier

Dante

I walk up to a shuttered bodega. Pieces of the paper sign flap in the wind, declaring that I can get “sacks” and “dinks” inside. New York City flows around this abandoned piece of itself, not even glancing at it.

Perfect.

I slide into the alley beside it, unlock the chain on the back door, and step inside. Tony and Cal Duncan stand in the flickering light of the ex-backroom, now lined with knives, cattle prods, ropes, and any other torture instrument a Saint has come up with in the last decade.

“I was wondering if you’d ever show your fine face.” Cal smiles. “I called you as soon as I heard.”

“I had other business,” I answer crisply. “What did you catch?”

“A tuna, if I do say so myself.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Brigadier. No sign of Fyodor, but the place was obviously important to them.”

Someone grunts just past the thin door that separates us from the main room. I smile. Brigadier means decent information.

“Who has him?” I ask.

“One of my boys wanted first touch.” Cal grins. “Sim